


Brief Encounter

by McG



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Case Fic, Coming Out, M/M, One Night Stands, there's been a murder!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22576798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McG/pseuds/McG
Summary: James goes on a night out, and hooks up with a polite young man he chats to in a bar.He doesn't imagine there could be any consequences...
Relationships: James Hathaway/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 113
Kudos: 165





	1. Chapter 1

This last week had been a tough one. A convoluted, complicated case involving a series of teenage suicides, which always stung James the most. Twisting up his thoughts and feelings until he couldn't think straight. 

Paperwork finally done, left now to await the coroner's hearing where there would be a list of failings in the social support system, but ultimately the death of three young people would be filed away as a tragedy. 

James needed a drink. Or several drinks. And he desperately, furiously needed to be reminded that he was alive. The combination of which had led him here. 

Now, James Hathaway had been clubbing plenty of times in his life. He'd been to university, he'd wanted to fit in with the other freshers. And of course there was his year out, as he'd come to refer to it in his mind, between leaving the seminary and joining the police force. Plenty of poor decision making and drinking in that time period he remembered, though sometimes he thought it might be better if he _didn't_ remember. 

And of course there had been work-related trips to pubs, bars and clubs aplenty. 

So he wasn't unfamiliar with this. Just out of practice. 

The pounding music that he could feel in his chest. The smell of bleach and vomit (and by god, did he miss the days when the smell of cigarette smoke would mask all manner of odorous sins). The suspiciously cheap vodka and coke in a plastic glass he clutched in his hand. More vodka than coke: but somehow a treble shot was cheaper than a single one, and he was sure that wasn't supposed to be legal anymore, but then again he wasn't here as a policeman and it served his purpose so what did he care. 

The dance floor was off limits: he wasn't quite at a stage where he could forget all of his natural reticence and just...fling himself bodily into the heaving midst of dancing strangers. In all honesty, he'd probably give himself alcohol poisoning before he'd ever reach _that_ level. But leaning on a pillar, clutching the drink that tasted mostly how lighter fluid smelled, he could use his height to his advantage. Groups of people dancing, established couples, brand new hook-ups. A cluster of young guys across near door to the toilets who were not even subtly dealing drugs. 

James took another sip of his drink, wincing at the taste, and let his gaze sweep back over to this side of the club. A man at the bar was watching him, while he queued waiting to be served. The man grinned in a vaguely sheepish manner when he was caught staring, and James smiled back. 

Younger than he was, though probably older than the undergraduate students that formed most of the club's clientele. Dark hair, skinny. Black jeans slung low on his hips, and a tight striped t shirt tucked in at the front. Nothing about him that exactly screamed gay, but then he had been watching James… And, James supposed, there was nothing about himself that made it especially obvious that while he might be very exacting about many things in his life, a specific gender was not on his list of criteria when he was looking for a partner. 

James kept the man in his peripheral vision, saw him finally get the attention of the bar staff, and saw him make his way back through the crowd clutching three bottles of beer. He downed the last of his own drink, and started weaving his way through the crowd, making his way to the back doors that led out to the terrace at the back of the club, and the all-important smoking area. It was blessedly cool and quiet outside, after the crush of the club. Only a handful of solitary smokers, a few small groups of women, a pack of young men, dressed in matching t shirts proclaiming them to be on rugby tour, who were honest-to-god baying at the moon. 

James had just lit up when someone leaned back against the wall next to him. He glanced sideways and smiled when he saw it was the man from the bar, now holding just one beer bottle. 

"Don't suppose I could bum a smoke?" he asked, standing shoulder to shoulder with James. 

James said nothing, but retrieved the packet of cigarettes from his pocket, offered one over, and held up his lighter. 

The man lit up and took a deep draw on the cigarette, coughing slightly. 

"I'm Elliot," he said. 

"James," James responded. 

They smoked in companionable silence for a while, before Elliot spoke again. 

"I'm supposed to have quit," he gestured with the cigarette to show what he was referring to. "But then I have a few drinks and all I want is a smoke." he took another draw, blowing it out in a steady stream. "Mind you, I was also supposed to quit drinking, but that lasted about three days. Man cannot be expected to get through a work week from hell without a night out to look forward to." he offered, philosophically. 

"Hear, hear," James mimed clinking a glass against Elliot's beer bottle, thinking now that he should probably have bought another drink himself. But the idea of wading back through the heaving mass of people, and queueing again at the bar was not an enjoyable one. 

"I mean, I don't even like clubbing." Elliot continued. "I hate the music and the drunk people and no one ever wants to go with me to a gay bar." he glanced sideways at James to watch his face for a reaction. 

"I'm into world music. They don't make clubs for world music," James tells him, mournfully. 

"God. At least I can usually find an indie night somewhere. World music is a bit...niche." 

"I'm aware." James grins wryly, and stubs out his cigarette, dropping the butt to the ground. There's bins dotted around the smoking area, but he's by far not the first person to ignore them for convenience. "Why'd you come here then, if you hate it so much?"

"My team deserved a night out. They're not that much into clubbing either, but it's good for them to get out sometimes. They're all developers. They speak 10 programming languages apiece, but they're not very fluent at 'human'."

"What do they develop?" 

Elliot shrugs, stubs out his own cigarette butt and crosses three steps to chuck the end into the nearest bin, then crosses back. 

"Software, apps, websites. Whatever people want them to."

"And you?"

"Project manager and professional techie whisperer. I interpret between code and human." 

"And you had the week from hell?" 

"Clients who can't tell you what they want but claim that they'll know it when they see it. A boss who hasn't got a clue how long anything takes, but still tries to micromanage anyway. A deadline that we shouldn't have agreed to in the first place, compounded by a server failure." 

"Sounds fun." James said. 

"On top of that, I've had a massive fight with my flatmate, or I'd have asked you if you want to come back to mine already." he grinned up at James, the few inches height difference emphasised by his casual slouch against the wall. All brave confidence, with just a slight hint of uncertainty in his eyes. 

James liked it. The direct approach suited his mood this evening, but he had never had time for arrogant arseholes who assumed the answer would be yes. 

"I live by myself," James told him, "if you wanted to get away from your place for a night?"

Elliot grinned, wide and bright. 

"Sure, give me five minutes to say bye to my friends, and I'll meet you out the front?" he asked. 

James nodded. 

Elliot glanced around the smoking area quickly. No one was paying them any attention, and the group of rugby boys from earlier had gone back inside. He leaned up, and pressed a kiss against James' mouth. Ducking back down and heading back into the club with a little wave. 

\---

James managed to get a coffee, sit at his desk, and open his email software all before they got a call about a suspicious death. 

He took note of the details and took a few determined swigs of his coffee before they had to leave the office. 

"Do we need to swing via Starbucks on the way to the crime scene, sir?" Lizzie asked, donning her coat and looking annoyingly fresh faced.

James just scowled at her, and thunked his empty mug back onto his desk. 

"C'mon," he said, "You can drive."

\---

The approach to the crime scene was the usual tangle of police patrol cars, crime scene tape, coroners van and a host of nosy neighbours. The house itself a two bed terrace, with steps up to the door. 

"Called in by the housemate," the constable on the door told them. "Got home from a night out about 8 o'clock this morning, found the place trashed and our victim dead in the middle of the room. Doctor Hobson arrived just before you did, she's in there now."

"Victim's name?"

"Thomas Smythe, 24 years old. The housemate is Elliot Hughes. We've not got details of his alibi yet. He's pretty shaken up; it’s a bit of a mess."

James felt vaguely sick in the back of his throat, his heart suddenly beating faster and upsetting the coffee currently sloshing around in his stomach. 

_Just a coincidence, probably._ he told himself. 

"Where is Mr Hughes?" Lizzie asked. 

"Front room, first door on the right."

Still, James hung back, just in case. They paused in the doorway before entering and James' heart sank. Elliot Hughes had his back to the door, hunched over a mug of tea and a uniformed police officer standing by him. A red shock blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, but that was the same tousled hair, the same delicate hands wrapped around the mug. The same skinny jeans that only an hour or so ago had been on his own bedroom floor. 

Well, fuck. 

James touched Lizzie on the arm briefly to get her attention and backed out the room before they could be seen. He retreated entirely out of the house and into the small front garden, perching on the low wall. 

"What's up?" she asked. 

"I know him. The housemate. I can't interview him." James told her, without meeting her eye. 

She nodded slowly.

"Ok, can you call Moody and let him know? I'll interview the witness and speak to Doctor Hobson?" 

James nodded in agreement, but made no move. 

“Sir?” Lizzie queried. 

That snapped James back into the moment and he fumbled for his phone. 

“Yep, yes. Good plan.” 

—


	2. Chapter 2

Robbie was in the middle of Sainsburys when he got a call from CS Moody, asking him to come in to lead a murder case. 

He and Laura Hobson had been back from New Zealand for a few weeks, and aside from a couple of training seminars and a deathly dull departmental planning meeting, he’d found himself in low demand. 

Everyone had been assuring him that he was definitely still needed and relevant. The current downswing in serious crime was a good thing on the whole. But he had to admit that it did feel good to be getting the call. Terrible, awful, that some poor sod had been murdered, of course. But...to be needed. To be important. That felt reassuring.

Robbie abandoned his half-full trolley at the customer service desk with profuse apologies, and headed straight back home to don a suit and tie. 

Forensics were still busy at the crime scene, but the body was already in the care of the mortuary staff, and the main witness, the victim’s flatmate, was ensconced in an interview room at the police station. Unable to stay in the house while the SOCO team worked, Elliot Hughes had been furnished with a cup of weak coffee and was ready to give a formal statement. 

“Surely you’re not on this after the past week?” Robbie asked as he approached Sergeant Lizzie Maddox on the corridor. “Laura said you two had been run ragged! I thought the lack of Hathaway was why I was needed?” 

“He’s recused himself,” Lizzie explained with a shrug. “Knows the witness apparently. He didn’t say how.” she added with a wry grin, acknowledging her boss’s reticence and private nature. 

Robbie rolled his eyes in response. 

“What’s the story?” he asked, as he accepted a copy of the case notes from her in the corridor outside Interview Room 3. 

“Victim is Thomas Smythe, 24. Post-grad at Brookes. Badly beaten. We’re waiting on specifics on cause of death and the timeframe. Housemate came home shortly before 8am, found Smythe, called it in. He’s Elliot Hughes, 28, works for a tech start up at the science park.” 

“Where was he while Smythe’s busy being kicked to death?” 

“Stayed with a friend, apparently." Her tone implied air quotes around the word 'friend'. "We’ve got no details yet.” 

“Is he a suspect?” 

“Too soon to say. He had the victim’s blood on his hands and clothes when uniform arrived, but he said he tried to do first aid, which could explain it.”

“Forensics?”

“We’ve sent the clothes off to them.” 

“Right. Are you happy to lead?” Robbie asked, as they prepared to go into the room. 

“Yep,” Lizzie confirmed, pleased to be trusted.

-/-

They settled themselves opposite Elliot at the table, introduced themselves and reminded him that he was there voluntarily, to give a witness statement. They explained the process of recording the interview for the case file, and reminded him that he wasn’t under caution or being arrested. 

“I know we covered some of this at the house,” Lizzie explained kindly “but, if you could just talk us through what happened. Take your time.” 

Elliot stared down at his coffee cup, speaking calmly. 

“I came home, it was around eight o’clock. I took off my shoes and coat in the hallway, and was heading to the kitchen. When I passed the living room, I noticed that it was trashed. So I went in. I saw Tom lying on the floor. It looked like he’d been beaten up. There was blood everywhere,” 

Elliot paused, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard and took a steadying breath before continuing. 

“I went over to him, to see if I could help. I was trying to wake him up, to see if he was breathing. But he was cold. When I touched him he was cold.” he blew out a slow breath and scrubbed at his face with a shaking hand. “I’m sorry.” 

“Take your time.” Robbie reminded him, pushing a box of tissues across the table. 

“When did you last see Tom alive?” Lizzie asked. 

“Last night. About half 6. That’s when I got home from work. But I wasn’t there long. I was going out with some colleagues.” 

“Did the two of you get along well?” Robbie asked. 

“Well enough. We weren’t friends particularly. But we rubbed along ok for the most part. Some arguments about housework and bills and that sort of thing.” 

Elliot laughed without humour. 

“God,” he added, “we had a ridiculous row last night about the fucking dishwasher of all things. If I’d known he was going to be killed…” 

“Did Tom have any enemies? Anyone threatening him or any grudges, that sort of thing?” Lizzie asked. 

There was a pause before Elliot answered this time. Only slight, but both detectives caught it. 

“Not that I know of. But like I said, we weren’t friends. I don’t know much about him.” 

“Ok, and you said you were out last night? Can you tell us where and what time?”

“You need my alibi?” Elliot asked, but he didn’t sound surprised. 

“It’s routine; we just need to know where everyone was and when so we can build the timeline.” 

“Well, I met my friends at the Cow and Creek about half 7. They’re colleagues, I can give you names and numbers?” 

“We’ll sort that out in a bit. Then where?” Lizzie asked as she made notes. 

“We went on to Emporium about 11. I’m not sure the exact time, but we argued about whether it was worth trying to go beforehand and if it’d be free entry earlier or whether we were too cool. We definitely decided that since we didn’t even know if there was a cover charge or when then we shouldn’t go until after 11.”

“You were still with the same people then?”

“Yeah - a couple of people had gone home. We stayed at the club a bit longer. Two of the guys were still there when I left.” 

“But you didn’t go home?” 

That prompted an embarrassed laugh. 

“No,” he look a sip of coffee. “I hooked up with someone.” 

“This someone have a name?”

“James,”

“Last name?”

“No idea.” 

“And you went back to his? Do you know the address?” 

“Jericho, somewhere. I’m not sure. We took a cab. Near the canal I think though.” 

“What does he look like?” 

“Tall, blond, slim. Cheekbones.”

Robbie and Lizzie exchanged a glance. The description was general enough, but in combination with the name and Hathaway taking himself off the case, something Robbie knew he generally avoided even when it was wise... 

“Anything else identifiable? Did he mention where he worked, for example?” 

“Um, no. Something high stress? He said he was out drinking because he’d had ‘the week from hell’. We commiserated about work being a nightmare but I don’t think he said what he did.” 

“What about where he lived? A flat, I assume, in that area?” 

“Yeah. Upstairs. One bedroom, pretty nice. Probably pricey. High ceilings. Shared rear yard: he went out for a smoke at one point.” 

Robbie scrubbed his face with one hand and looked at Lizzie questioningly. 

She shrugged in response. She was was fairly sure they were thinking along the same lines but she wasn’t sure what the right call was here. 

Robbie didn’t take long to come to a decision though. He fished his phone out from his pocket and flicked through the photos app until he found what he was looking for. 

“This is a bit of a longshot,” he said, preparing to slide the phone over the table to Elliot. “But by any chance, is this the man you went home with?” 

Elliot stared at the photo on the screen in surprise for a moment, then nodded. 

“Yes, yeah. That’s him, but how…?” 

“For the benefit of the tape, I have just shown Mr Hughes a photograph of Detective Inspector James Hathaway. Interview suspended, 10:08 am.” he hit the pause button on the audio recorder.


	3. Chapter 3

Hathaway was sitting at his desk when Robbie and Lizzie got to the office. 

He looked up at them, his face fixed into a blank mask but a worried look in his eye. 

“This needs to be by the book,” Robbie told him, straight off the bat. No point beating about the bush, or being coy about what Hughes had told them.

James was taken aback. The serious look on Robbie's face made it clear that somehow they knew what he was here to say. 

“How…?” he asked, bewildered. 

Robbie Lewis was without doubt the best detective that James had ever met, but still he was surprised. He'd come back here straight from the crime scene and spent hours agonising over how to explain that he could alibi Elliot without having to sacrifice his own reputation, or his friendship with Robbie. 

But before he’d had a chance to even formulate an explanation, Robbie already knew. 

Well, hell. 

“Tall, blond and called James, who lives in Jericho and smokes isn’t the most precise of descriptions, I’ll grant you.” Robbie said, “But given that you took yourself off the case without explanation, and the fact that you look as rough as a badger’s arse... It paints enough of a picture.” 

Robbie set his copy of the casefile down on Lizzie’s desk and then perched on the edge of James’. 

“And he’s identified you from a photo.” he added, gently. He knew James would hate this. Hate the scrutiny and invasion of his privacy. 

Lizzie went to her own desk and switched on her computer. 

Hathaway looked worried and vaguely guilty, and Lewis looked concerned but closed off. She sensed there was more going on here than the conversation she could hear. 

“You’ll need to make a statement, confirming the alibi.” Robbie continued. “And I need to brief Moody.”

James nodded glumly, staring down at his desk and chewing the side of his thumbnail.

"Lizzie, can you get a meeting with Moody sorted?" Robbie asked, still watching James for a moment. 

Finally, he stood up from his perch and started rummaging about in the desk drawer for the pack of markers he would need for writing on the incident board. 

"I'm not gay," James said quietly after a moment. 

Lizzie glanced between the two of them, still out of her depth in terms of what else was going on here. 

"None of our business," Robbie told him, his tone brisk. 

\---

Chief Superintendent Joe Moody was a busy man, but he liked to try and prioritise meetings with his own team if he could. His personal assistant, Elise, had managed to get them in to see him fairly quickly. 

"Something wrong?" he asked, when Lewis, Hathaway and Maddox all filed into his office. 

Usually updates on cases were fairly informal exchanges, plus Hathaway was making an appearance when he'd already asked to be taken off the case... 

Robbie glanced at James to see if he was going to speak, but James resolutely stared at a point on the back wall of the office, looking past Moody's shoulder. 

Robbie sighed, realising he was going to have to do all the talking here. 

"As you know, our murder victim was found and reported by his flatmate. Hathaway is the flatmate's alibi."

"Ok," Moody said, realising that he needed to be formally involved to make sure there was transparency and no one could accuse them of covering for a friend of a police officer. 

"Friend of yours then, is he?" Moody asked, wanting to confirm the situation and also confused about why James hadn't simply said so when he'd called from the crime scene to ask to be taken off the case. 

"Something like that." James said, still staring at the wall. 

Moody waited for a few seconds to see if he was going to expand. He got the distinct impression he was missing something. 

"And you were with him for the whole of our time of death window?" Moody prompted, for confirmation. 

"Yes." 

"What time was that?" Moody asked Robbie. 

"Sometime between about midnight and six o'clock, apparently. We don't have anything more precise yet."

"He was with you that whole time?" Moody directed back at Hathaway. 

"Yes, sir. He stayed at mine." 

"And you're sure there's no way he could have left and come back?"

"I'm a light sleeper, sir. I like to think I'd notice if he'd got out of bed, stolen my keys, left the flat, murdered someone, snuck back in and got back into bed. Sir." 

Hathaway's expression was absolutely blank, and his tone bitingly sardonic. 

And, wait, _back into bed…_ oh. Oh! 

"I see," Moody said. "How long have you known him? Hughes, is it?"

James glanced down at his watch, then back at the wall. 

"About ten hours, sir. Give or take." 

"Ah. Well. You'll need to make a formal statement to support the alibi," Moody said, clearing his throat. "I appreciate it can be awkward if a case ends up tangled up with your personal life." he added. "But we'll do this by the book. Lewis can take a statement, confirming times and locations, and then you'd better head off home. I'll sort it with HR. You can't be involved in the investigation, but you should make yourself available if Robbie or Lizzie need you as a witness."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a teeny tiny chapter

James answered the door wearing a pair of joggers and an old, threadbare hoodie. His hair was in disarray and there was a hole in one of his socks. 

He said nothing to Robbie, simply walking back into the flat and slumping down at the dining table, trusting Robbie to follow

"Look, sir, I'm sorry," James said, breaking the silence. 

"Oh, 'sir'. It's been a while since you called me that. What have you got to be sorry for?"

"This whole…" James waved a hand vaguely in the air, "Thing."

"What about it?"

"It was unprofessional, and out of character. I shouldn't have let my personal life interfere with work. I promise it won't happen again."

Robbie sighed, and sat down in the chair next to James, twisting so he was side on to the table, facing James' profile. 

"First of all...I'm not your boss anymore. Your professionalism isn't really mine to worry about. Secondly, while it's always unfortunate if your personal life gets pulled into a case, it happens to all of us at one time or another. You may not have planned it, but as far as I can tell you dealt with it completely professionally. And a tad more appropriately than you have done with some of these things in the past, don't forgot."

"Sir," James started. 

"Robbie," Robbie corrected. 

"Robbie, I… Don't you see though? I've lied to you again. How can you sit there so calmly?"

"How do you figure that?" Robbie asked. James stared at him blankly, trying to work out if he was being deliberately obtuse or if he genuinely couldn't see the point James was making. 

"Elliot's alibi is literally that he was in bed with me at the time of the murder?" James pointed out, thinking that by now it must surely be obvious. 

"Yeah, and? You're allowed a private life, James, you don't need to inform me of your movements 24/7. I'm your mate, not your bloody jailer." 

"And he's a man."

"Yes. And?"

"And you asked me outright if I was gay."

"Yes. I did. And you told me that it wasn't as simple as gay or straight. Quite rightly, though I have to say I'm still a bit offended that you think me so old fashioned that I wouldn't understand. You can use the word bisexual, you know. I'm not your maiden aunt; I won't die of shock."

James stared at him, his face the picture of surprise.

"You knew…? This whole time, you knew?"

"You told me, James! You sat there and said there wasn't a neat straight line down the middle. I'm not an idiot!" 

"But...that whole thing. With the Yorkie bar?"

"Your apology for imposing such a crude assumption of how I see the world I thought? For treating me like I was thick?" 

"You were meant to think I was straight…" 

There was a long silence where they stared at each other for a moment. 

"I did not get that from it at all…" Robbie admitted. 

Another slightly uncomfortable silence. 

"But you're not." Robbie prompted, after the silence drew on too long. It wasn't a question. 

"Well, no." 

"Then why did you want me to think you were?"

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Why would I be uncomfortable?"

"Because…" James trailed off. 

"Because you're bi? James, I've known this since that day. I thought you realised I knew. I know we don't talk about personal things often, Jim, but you must have noticed that I always keep gender out of the question when it does come up?"

James stared at him, realisation dawning as he recounted their few sparse conversations on the topic of relationships over the years… 

_Hot date, is it?_ his memory offers Robbie asking, _For your sake, you need a partner…_

God. He really has been dumb. Thinking he was in the closet this whole time. Worried about spoiling his friendship with Robbie if he came out. 

"Who else knows?" James asked, suddenly worried that maybe his privacy hadn't been so fiercely guarded as he'd thought. 

"I don't know, who else have you told?" 

"No one. I didn't think I'd told you either, though." 

"Well I've not been going around spreading rumours about you, James. Your private life is your own, and I've always respected that. If you weren't offering information on if and who you were dating then it wasn't my business to speculate either. Though I dare say that Lizzie and Moody are going to be making some assumptions now. And Laura gave me a very deliberate eyebrow raise earlier today so I suspect she's heard something of it and that I'm going to be in for a grilling when I get home." 

James looked rather stunned by this information. 

He let out a low groan and sank his forehead down onto the table in front of him. 

"God, Robbie, it's going to be all round the station by now." 

"So what?" 

"So I don't want everyone gossiping about me!" James snapped. 

Robbie considered him for a moment, then reached out and clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. 

"Aye, I know, lad. But sometimes these things happen. They'll soon move on to something new." 

"Wait," James said, lifting his head up and staring at Robbie, "in the office this morning. When I was waiting to explain that I was his alibi. You were off with me, stilted."

"Yeah, I know," Robbie sighed and scrubbed his hand with his face. "I was trying to be professional, and to be honest, I was also a little miffed at you."

"About what?"

"You taking yourself off the case without calling to tell me why. You knew Moody was mostly likely to put me on it. I'd have appreciated the heads up. As a friend." 

"Oh," James said in a small voice. 

\---


	5. Chapter 5

"Sir, we might have a problem," Lizzie said to Robbie the following morning, as she put the phone down. 

"Forensics?" 

"Yes. They've identified the murder weapon. It was the cricket bat, as we thought. But the only fingerprints on it are Hughes'." she said, looking worried. 

"No sign that any others have been wiped clean?" Robbie asked, leaning back in his chair. 

"They think not. Should we bring him in for questioning?" 

"He was hiding something when we asked about any enemies that Smythe had, wasn't he?" Robbie asked, thinking aloud. 

"Sounded like it to me," Lizzie agreed. 

"Aye. Let's get him back in. Interview under caution this time." 

\---

As a general rule, James tried not to smoke inside his flat. For one thing he'd had to remove all the batteries from the smoke alarms, and even with his tall stature, that had required some ungainly clambering on chairs to reach. 

Then again he normally wasn't drinking wine at lunchtime, alone in his flat either. 

Nor did he normally get suspended from work, or have one night stands, and certainly not with men. 

All in all, it was a pretty atypical day for him. 

His phone pinged just as he was lighting up another cigarette. He squinted at it through the smoke, and saw it was a message from Sergeant Marino, a stalwart of the traffic police in Oxford. 

_Hey,_ the message read, _Just wanted to get in touch as the the LGBT+ point person for the police federation. No doubt you're aware there's one or two rumours about you going round the station today. I wanted to let you know that there's information and resources on the staff intranet about LGBT+ issues, and about harassment and bullying in the workplace. And if you need any information or advice, feel free to drop in and see me. Cheers!_

Great, James thought. Just what he needed: next thing he knew, she would be signing him up for the annual intra-force LGBT charity rugby game. He sighed, and took another swig of wine, wondering if he should maybe eat some actual food. 

He'd heard nothing at all about the case either. Although, he honestly didn't expect to. He recognised his orders to get out and stay out. He was briefly worried that maybe Robbie shouldn't have come round to see him yesterday evening, either. But it wasn't as if he'd revealed anything about the case. 

\---

"Do you recognise this?" Robbie asked, laying an official evidence photo down on the table. 

"It's a cricket bat," Elliot answered. 

"Is it yours?"

Elliot squinted at it, trying to ignore the obvious blood stains.

"It could be. The stitching looks like the right colour. Is this what they used? To kill Tom?" he asked, looking up at Robbie and Lizzie. 

"You tell us," Lizzie said. 

"What? What do you mean?" 

"Your fingerprints were found all over this, Mr Hughes," Robbie told him. "No one else's." 

"Well then I'd say it probably is my bat, then," Elliot bit out, annoyed at the stern expressions and cold attitude he was getting. It was a hell of a contrast to the previous day, when they'd been reassuring and calming.

"And did you use it to kill Tom?" Lizzie asked. 

"No!" 

"What happened, Mr Hughes? Did your argument get out of hand? You got angry and hit him with the nearest object to hand?" Robbie asked. He glanced down at his notebook. "An argument about the dishwasher, I think you said?" 

"Yes, we argued about the dishwasher. No, I didn't hit him. I yelled because I'd asked him to empty the dishwasher two days ago and he still hadn't done it. He never bloody does. Then I put my shoes on and left, because I was in a hurry! As far as I knew, the bat was in the hall cupboard where it always lived." 

Lizzie flicked through the pages of a report in a manilla folder in front of her. It was all for show, really: she'd memorised the information she needed for these questions. 

"Elliot, did you know that Tom was a habitual drug user?" Lizzie asked, changing tack. 

Elliot was quiet for a moment, the same feel to the pause as when he'd been asked if Tom had enemies the day before. 

"I suspected he might occasionally use drugs. But it wasn't really any of my business." he finally said. 

"Do you use drugs, Mr Hughes?" Robbie asked. 

"I-- No, I--" Elliot stopped, paused, and then added, "No comment." 

"Elliot, we'd like to take hair and urine samples from you to determine if you're also a drug user," Lizzie explained to him, "Now, you can either cooperate with that voluntarily, or we can get a court order forcing you to comply. It's up to you." 

Elliot swallowed nervously. 

"What happens if it shows something?" he asked, sounding worried. 

"Then we have grounds to search your workplace, your car, any other property you own. If you and Smythe had a falling out about drugs, then that starts to paint a rather different picture about what it is you might have been arguing about…" 

"It wasn't; we weren't!" Elliot protested. He looked about ready to cry. Robbie wasn't sure if he was a very good actor, or if perhaps he really wasn't involved at all. 

"Look," Elliot said, "It was a party, some friends were passing a joint, I only had, like, two tokes, max. I swear, it wasn't even anyone who knows Tom!" 

"Ok," Robbie said, gathering up his papers into a neat stack. "Let's take a break. Ten minutes. The constable here can get you a drink if you want." Robbie told Elliot, nodding to the uniformed officer standing guard by the door. 

"You don't think he did it, do you?" Lizzie asked, once they'd retreated out of earshot in the corridor. 

"No," Robbie sighed, "not unless he's a world class actor. What was it forensics said about Smythe? Long term, serious coke habit, and a cocktail of everything else in there too? It seems more like maybe Smythe was partying with some rather more hardcore friends that night, probably one of them killed him."

"And the finger prints?" Lizzie challenged. "The killer wore gloves?" 

"It's possible, I suppose…" 

Robbie sighed again, and rubbed his forehead. 

"We should let him go, I think. Get someone to keep an eye on him, but we don't have anything to hold him on really. Back to the drawing board." 

\---

James was definitely drunk by the time the knock came at his door that afternoon. He considered not answering it, but then it occurred to him that perhaps he'd ordered a food delivery and forgotten. He wandered over to answer it, leaning heavily on the door frame. 

"Elliot!" he said with surprise, 

"Sorry. I wasn't sure I had the right flat. Is it ok if I come in?" he asked, nervously. 

James stepped back, allowing Elliot in, and closed the door behind him. 

"You didn't bring any food, by any chance?" James asked. 

"Um, no?" Elliot said. 

"Want some?" James asked as he crossed into the kitchen area of the flat and crouched down, rummaging through the freezer drawers. "I probably have curry in here. I can cook some rice." 

"Uh, sure." Elliot agreed, "Hey, can I bum a smoke?" he asked a second later, spotting the smouldering fag end in the overflowing ashtray on the table. 

"Go for it," James told him, as he started banging about with pots and pans, and faffing with the microwave to defrost the curry he'd found. 

"You shouldn't smoke in your flat, you know," Elliot informed him, "it's a bugger to get the smell out again." 

"I'm half a bottle of wine past caring," James called back to him. "What brings you here anyway?" 

"I don't know. It seemed right. I wanted to apologise: I hope you didn't get into any trouble at work because of me. They said you're a Detective Inspector." 

"Yep," James confirmed. "Inspector Lewis used to be my boss, until I got promoted. Sergeant Maddox is normally my sergeant." He said as he measured out rice and water into a pan and switched on the hob. 

"They think I killed Tom," Elliot said. He was shaken by this turn of events, even more so than when he'd found the body in the first place. 

"They can't have much evidence, if you're sitting in my flat and not banged up in a cell." 

"They said the murder weapon was my cricket bat. It's got my fingerprints on it."

"Well it would, wouldn't it, if it's yours." James stirred the pan of rice, and wandered back to the sofa, slumping down heavily next to Elliot. He stretched an arm out along the backrest, in a vague invitation. Elliot took it as such, reaching forward to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray and then shifting sideways, resting his weight against James. James wrapped his arm around Elliot's shoulders and pressed his face against the top of his head. 

-/-

"Uniform just called, sir. They followed Hughes, as requested, and he's gone back to Hathaway's." Lizzie informed Robbie, when he returned to the office carrying two mugs of tea. 

"Should we be worried, do you think?" Robbie asked her, concerned about letting a potential murder suspect near James, but also trusting his instincts that Hughes probably wasn't their killer. 

"Maybe call him to check on him in a bit?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe."


	6. Chapter 6

James put aside his empty plate, feeling a little more human now that he'd eaten some food to soak up the alcohol. He felt tired though, the emotional exhaustion of the day weighing on him, not to mention the late night. He quite fancied having a lie down, though he was slightly unsure whether he wanted to invite Elliot to join him, nor did he feel much like kicking him out. The poor guy had been drawn into something shocking and James felt a certain responsibility towards him. He took another sip of wine, and then twisted on the sofa, so he was facing Elliot, and leaned in close, tracing a line of kisses along his jaw. 

If James started something, he reasoned, then that would be a good distraction from this hellish day for them both.

Given that he was currently suspended, James had switched his phone to silent when he plugged it in to charge in the kitchen. So he didn't hear it ringing as Robbie tried to call him. 

-/-

"Still no answer," Robbie said, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. 

"He might have his phone off?" Lizzie said, trying to find rational, non-worrisome reasons for them not being able to get hold of James. 

"Moody told him he needed to be available in case we needed him. Having his phone on seems like a fairly basic requirement." He rubbed his forehead, frowning at the start of a headache nagging at his temples. 

Lizzie didn't seem nearly as worried, but then Lizzie hadn't had to experience Hathaway's apparent ability to attract danger whenever his personal life ended up tangled in a case… 

"Ah, sod it, I'm going round there." Robbie declared, propelling himself out of the chair and grabbing his car keys. 

-/-

James slid his hand up the back of Elliot's t-shirt, enjoying the smooth skin and Elliot's grin of appreciation. 

Elliot in turn cupped the side of James's jaw with one hand, and drew him in for another kiss, rocking his hips forward into James's as he sat straddling him on the sofa. The angle wasn't quite right for either of them to find any real friction, but it did make for a slow, delicious tease. 

Elliot squirmed slightly as James trailed a hand up his side, finding the ticklish spot at Elliot's waist. James then pulled at the back of the t-shirt again, tugging it upwards, and between them they managed to pull it over Elliot's head, casting it to one side. 

A knock at the door disturbed the moment. 

"James?" Robbie's voice, muffled by the door but easily identifiable to James's attuned ear. "James, are you in there?"

"Fucking hell." James muttered. Elliot rested their foreheads together, breathless from the exertion and frustrated at the interruption. 

"You should answer that," Elliot told him, with a brief kiss. He clambered off James, and flopped down on the sofa next to him. With an annoyed groan, James went to answer the door. 

"What?" James demanded, holding the door ajar, and pointedly not inviting Robbie in. 

"You weren't answering your phone," Robbie told him, trying to peer past him into the room, "I just wanted to check if you're ok?" 

"I'm fine. You can go now." James said, still annoyed. 

"Why won't you let me in?" Robbie asked, worried that perhaps James was being threatened or coerced in some way. 

"I have company." 

"Oh? Who's that then?"

"For fuck's sake," James declared, swinging the door wide, and trudging back into the flat. Robbie could be stubborn at times; he clearly wasn't going to be easily deterred. 

James crossed to the small kitchen, pausing to snag Elliot's discarded t-shirt and toss it to him on the way past. 

"Hi, Inspector Lewis," Elliot said sheepishly, with a small wave as he tugged the t-shirt back over his head. 

"Ah, I'm interrupting…" Robbie said, hesitating just inside the doorway. 

"I can go?" Elliot offered. 

"Don't," James told him, filling the kettle and switching it on. 

Robbie and Elliot eyeballed each other for a moment. 

"I'll go," Elliot said, breaking the eye contact and standing. 

"You don't have to leave on my account," Robbie said, politely. 

"No, it's fine, I have stuff to do." Elliot said, as he put his jacket on. 

James grabbed one of his own business cards from the stack by the key hooks in the corner of the kitchen and brought it over to Elliot. 

"Call me?" he offered, handing the card over. He didn't dare lean in for a goodbye kiss while Robbie was standing right there. 

"Yeah, see you." Elliot said, leaving. 

James closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, watching Robbie, waiting for an explanation. 

"I had uniform tailing him," Robbie offered after a moment. "And then you weren't answering your phone. And you don't exactly have a good track record with these things." 

"You were checking I wasn't being murdered?"

"Or drugged and set on fire." Robbie said, with a pointed look.

Resigned, James set about making two cups of tea now that the kettle had boiled. 

"Not that I don't appreciate the concern, Robert, but I really am fine you know," James said, once they were settled - James was on the sofa; Robbie in the armchair. 

"You have a proven track record of having no common sense when it comes to getting involved with people on cases," Robbie defended himself, going for a lighthearted dig and missing by a mile. 

Sensing the resentment in Robbie's tone, James's hackles were raised, and he felt the dig especially keenly.

"You've changed your tune," James informed him. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Robbie asked, bewildered, and kicking himself that despite trying to tread carefully, he'd managed to annoy James instead. 

"Yesterday you did your whole politically correct, modern man bit about not caring who I'm with, and then today you come round and basically say I can't be trusted to choose who I want to date."

"Oh, so you're dating now, are you? He's a fast worker!"

"Maybe we are. Is that going to be a problem?"

"James, I don't give a monkey's left bollock that he's a man! I care that you're jumping into bed with a murder suspect! Again!"

"So you say." 

"I do say! James, you slept with Scarlett Mortmaigne and you were almost shot; you let Zoe Kenneth take you home, drug you and she almost succeeded in burning you alive. Do you have any idea at all what it was like? To arrive there, the whole house ablaze and have no idea if you were alive or dead? To walk into a burning building, in the hope that I was in time to save you?"

James had no response, he stared down resolutely at his barely-touched tea. 

"You're me best mate, James," Robbie finally said, once the silence had drawn on uncomfortably long, "I care about you; I don't want to lose you. And yes, maybe I'm a little paranoid about you potentially getting murdered, but it's not without cause." 

“I never asked for your help.” James finally said. “I don't need you fussing over me like I'm a child.” His voice was quiet, but his tone was harsh and critical. “Just leave me alone.” 

They were quiet for a while, Robbie refusing to leave and James, stone faced, ignoring him and hoping he'd go.

"Is it a Catholic thing?" Robbie finally asked, breaking the tense silence. 

James jerked back, flinching as if Robbie had made a move to strike him. He stared, shocked for a moment. 

"Look, tell me to shut up and I will," Robbie continued, "but I thought we were friends. And this is clearly bothering you, and I want to understand why." 

James let out a huff of air through his nose, tipping forward to sit with his hands braced on his knees, head dropped forward. He sat quietly for a moment, jaw working as he tried to form the words he needed to explain something that he himself didn't even fully understand. 

"It isn't...It's not _not_ a Catholic thing," he finally managed, "it's complicated." 

Robbie watched him for a moment. Waiting to see if James would continue; if this was one of the precious rare moments where James shared something of himself. 

"When I left seminary," James went on, his words slow and careful, still trying to piece together his thoughts, "it was my own choice. I wasn't kicked out. I wasn't asked to leave." 

He sighed and finally sat back against the sofa cushions, tipping his head back, long neck extended. It was easier, somehow, to cast these words up into the air, and not look at Robbie while he spoke. 

"I didn't leave because of being...not-heterosexual. But it was one of many contributing factors, which when put together meant that I wasn't comfortable representing the Catholic church and advocating blind faith to others." 

The hardest part - starting this conversation - done, he finally lifted his head back up, glancing quickly at Robbie then away, trying to assess the likely reaction. 

"You couldn't match your faith to the doctrine?" Robbie asked, for clarification. 

"Basically. I still believed in God. But I couldn't unquestioningly support the dogma that I was being asked to recite. I studied theology because I wanted to better understand faith, to be closer to God. But in reality they don't like you to ask too many questions." 

"And now?" Robbie asked, carefully. He knew he was skating on thin ice, and that at any moment James could shut down the conversation, but he persevered nonetheless. 

James gave an exaggerated shrug.

"The longer I do this job, the more I question whether there is a God."

"And the Church?"

James was quiet again, rubbing his forehead in frustration at trying to order his thoughts. 

"It's simple, perhaps, to condemn it. Restrictive views that don't keep up with modern social values, some of the attitudes towards women are repugnant, but... " he sighed, "you weren't raised with religion, were you?" he asked. 

Robbie shook his head. 

"Not really. Christmas carols, Sunday School for a few years so that my Mam could have some peace and quiet to cook the dinner. Had to go once a month when I was in the Scouts."

"In my family, being Catholic, growing up at Crevecoeur…" James twisted his face, searching for the right explanation, "it's a fundamental part of my identity, of how I was raised. I don't know how to separate myself from that. I can't be myself without the influence of the Church, and so I can't be objective about it." 

"Can I try an analogy?" Robbie asked, "Probably very blasphemous, but it might help me to understand…" 

James raised an eyebrow in anticipation. 

"We weren't brought up with religion, but we were brought up with football." Robbie began, holding up a hand to silence James as he threw a sceptical look in response. "And I'm not going out of my way to go to any actual games, but being a Newcastle fan is still essential to my identity, and you can pry my black and white stripes out of my cold dead hands." he went on. 

"Riiight…" James prompted, one eyebrow raised. 

"And I know it's not the same thing," Robbie acknowledged, "but I can be out there in the world, as a Newcastle fan, and I can condemn Mike Ashley for his shocking business practices, but I still have being a Newcastle fan sitting alongside that. It's not always an easy combination, but no matter what he does, to the club, to his workers, or to the city...I'll always be a Newcastle fan, through and through." 

"He's the owner?" James asked for clarification, vaguely aware of football facts from break room chat at the station and hearing Robbie making casual conversation with strangers in pubs. 

"Yep. Owns a lot of businesses, and infamous for treating his employees badly. Tried to change the name of St James Park, even!" 

"How dare he," James responded, deadpan. 

"Oi, you. No mocking my religion." Robbie warned him with a grin. 

James sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"In some incredibly fucked up way, that does sort of make sense," he acknowledged. 

They sat quietly for a while, finishing their tea, but the peace was interrupted by Robbie's phone ringing. 

"Ah, I'm sorry lad," he said, as he ended the call, already standing and gathering up his coat, "That was Lizzie - we might have another lead.". 

-/-


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning hit James like an express train. 

His head felt like someone was driving an icepick in above his right eye socket, and his mouth was dry and stale. He reflected that perhaps pouring himself a double whisky after Robbie had left might not have been the wisest idea. 

As he nursed a cup of tea, waiting for the water and painkillers to do their work, James flicked through his phone. But there was nothing from Robbie or Lizzie, no update on the case. Nothing from Elliot either. But, well...it wasn't like they really knew each other. Or that James was looking for a relationship of any kind. 

He felt empty. Hollow. Like something was missing and he didn't know what. He glanced up at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. It was Sunday morning, perhaps he ought to go to church.

\--- 

Normally the familiarity of the church and its rituals would soothe and bring solace to James when he felt out of sorts; uncomfortable in his skin. But today as he sat in a pew, hands clasped and head bowed he felt alone. The gnawing sense of something being wrong still lingered, and James couldn't feel any connection with God. His brain was too busy, too weak. 

He left before mass began. 

\--- 

Laura Hobson wasn't always completely traditional when it came to a Sunday dinner, but she did still like to make the effort to cook something a bit more elaborate than usual. Today was a lamb tagine. 

Robbie had headed out early to the office, after a late night back, so she didn't know if he'd be back in time to eat with her. Still, it would keep. 

The doorbell ringing surprised her though. 

"Sorry to barge in like this," James apologised as soon as she opened the door. 

"James! What a lovely surprise." Laura reached up on tiptoe to greet him with a kiss on the cheek and then stepped back to let him in. "You're always welcome here, you know that." she added, to counter his apology. 

“Is Himself working?” James asked, following Laura back into the kitchen and putting the kettle on. He was gradually getting more used to making himself at home, more comfortable now in Robbie and Laura’s shared space than he had been at first. 

“Yep. And I’m not telling you any more than that.” she confirmed. 

James rolled his eyes at her cutting off his questioning, but didn’t push it any further. 

“Feeling out the loop?” Laura asked. 

“Mostly I’m feeling hungover,” he conceded. Laura laughed.

“Robbie did mention that you’d been day drinking yesterday. You should know better, at your age.” 

“My liver used to be so much kinder to me.” he agreed. 

They were quiet for a while, Laura pottering around, loading the dishwasher, while James got the cafetière ready and poured on the hot water once the kettle had boiled. 

An hour or so later, when Robbie arrived home, they’d gravitated towards the dinner table. Laura browsed the weekend newspaper while James tackled the crossword. 

“Hiya love!” Robbie called, the clatter of his keys into the pot by the door and the muffled thumps of him removing his coat and shoes. “Got the bastard; need to finish up the paperwork tomorrow but otherwise we’re all done.” he continued as he wandered through the hallway and into the kitchen. “I just need to call Ja- oh. You’re here.” 

“I’ve come to seduce your girlfriend while you’re at work,” James told him, deadpan. 

“As if she’d go for a tall drink of water like you,” Robbie answered, pausing to greet Laura with a kiss. 

“Go on then Miss Marple,” Laura prompted, “tell us whodunnit?” 

“His dealer, which I probably should have guessed from the off. Owed him a tonne of money. They argued, and bash: stoves his head in.” 

"And the cricket bat?" James asked. 

"Smythe grabbed it out of the cupboard - nearest thing to hand to defend himself." 

"On that delightful note," Laura informed him, "Dinner is ready, if you're ready for it"

\---

“I tried to go to church this morning,” James admitted, after they'd finished the meal and cleared away. 

“Oh?” 

“I couldn't stay. Sit there.” 

“Why not?” Robbie asked. 

“Don’t know.”

“What were you hoping to get from it?” Laura asked. 

James considered her for a moment, chewing absently on the side of his thumb while he thought about the question. 

“Absolution?” he finally suggested. 

"For your sins?" Robbie asked, his voice betraying his scepticism. 

"Yes." James answered, frowning at him. 

"What bloody sins are they then?" Robbie demanded, a little heatedly. He knew better than to provoke James about his religion, but he was royally sick of James punishing himself for things that weren't wrong. 

"You know what, Robert, --" James bit back.  
"No, no. Don't try and use some bible nonsense here, James." Robbie cut in, "You hold yourself to this impossible standard, you're never happy with your life. And it's painful to see. You're allowed to go out into the world and live there. You don't have to sit and watch everything happening around you while you ignore it and refuse to take part!" 

James was slightly taken aback by Robbie's passion at his life choices. 

"You have no right to judge me, Robbie. You have no idea what it's like for me. How I feel,"

"How you feel about what? Going home with some stranger? You're both consenting adults, nothing illegal or immoral there." 

"The church wouldn't agree." James snapped. 

"I thought God was meant to be love? Spreading joy and happiness in the world. You don't live in some uptight, outdated world, James. Times have changed. Human relationships are about finding joy and connecting with people. About living and experiencing good things. Going around shagging strangers may not fit into your idea of how to live a fulfilled life, but that doesn't make it wrong or bad. You are one of the best, kindest and most good people I have ever had the fortune to meet. You're allowed to let your hair down occasionally, man. You're not a bloody priest, in case you hadn't noticed!"

"If I don't keep to a high standard, then what stops me from becoming a bad person? There is nothing between me, and being evil, other than my own will power, Robbie, don't you see?!" 

"What's this really about?" Robbie challenged. 

James said nothing, his eyes blazing with rage. 

"About God?" Robbie continued. "About your friend, Will? What?! Because it's damn well more than whether or not you're allowed to enjoy yourself!"

James stopped stock still, his face betraying hurt and dismay.

He pulled himself fully upright, and walked out of the house, slamming the door hard behind him. 

"Shit," Robbie swore. 

"I'll say," Laura agreed, stunned at the outburst.


	8. Chapter 8

James was drinking whisky and brooding when his phone beeped with an incoming message a short while later. Elliot, asking if he wanted to meet up. 

The man had barely set foot in James's flat before James was in his space, pushing him back against the closed door and kissing him. The alcohol was obvious on his breath, and on his tongue. James dragged Elliot straight into his bedroom, both of them shedding clothes, leaving a trail of items behind them as they went. 

James, pushing Elliot down onto the bed, hands, mouths, everywhere. Kissing, touching, the sweat slick slide of skin and the tangle of sheets. James, intent and focused; his attention solely on Elliot, as the two of them writhed and panted and kissed…   
\--

Slumping down onto the pillows, chest heaving with the exertion, Elliot reached out an arm, keen to gain some contact with James as he basked in the endorphin rush of his orgasm. His flailing hand reached rib cage and he enjoyed the contact for a moment before the realisation trickled through to his conscious brain, that James's breathing pattern wasn't the same exhausted gasping as his. 

Instead, James was crying soundlessly. Only the stuttering of his breathing gave him away. 

"You ok?" Elliot asked, rolling over to curl up against James back. 

James didn't reply verbally, but gave a vague sort of head shake. Not ok? Not clear. 

"James? You're not hurt, or anything." 

Another shake. 

"Can I do anything?" 

Another. 

"Ok if I just stay here for a bit?" Elliot punctuated the question with a quick squeeze of his arm around James's waist. 

A nod this time. 

"Ok, you're ok."

Elliot continued to make vague soothing noises and offer platitudes until James's breathing evened out; the slow and deep breaths of sleep. 

\---

Elliot wasn't especially keen to leave James alone when he clearly was in some unknown distress. Instead, he cleaned up a little, went on a hunt for his clothing, and pottered around a bit in the kitchen. Loading the dishwasher, wiping down the counters and straightening out some of the empty glasses, piles of books, and overflowing ashtrays from the coffee table occupied the time quite nicely. He was just finishing rinsing out an empty wine bottle to go in the recycling, and wondering how long James might sleep, when there was a quiet tap on the door to the flat. 

"You again," Robbie said, with a smile, when Elliot answered the door. 

"Inspector Lewis, come in," 

"James about?" 

"He's asleep." Elliot hesitated for a moment and then continued. "He was a bit upset, I think." 

"Ah. We had a bit of a row earlier, so that's probably my fault." 

Elliot nodded. 

"I was going to put the kettle on," Elliot stated, "I didn't want to leave when he didn't seem ok." 

"A cuppa would be lovely," Robbie accepted the oblique offer. 

A strange dance, as the two of them moved around the small kitchen. Robbie knowing where the mugs lived, but letting Elliot play host despite his lack of familiarity with the layout. 

"You and James are friends, right? I mean, he said you were his boss…"

"He's me best mate. I've not been his boss for ages now." 

Elliot nodded. 

"I'm not his keeper, mind you," Robbie continued after the silence had dragged awkwardly long, "He doesn't answer to me, if you two are planning to keep seeing each other, that's none of my business except for my general interest in his happiness. And even then, he's not usually keen on my concern for his wellbeing." 

"Is he happy?" Elliot asked, curious to know how James was perceived by those who knew him better. 

Robbie blew out a long breath. 

"That's a million dollar question I don't have the answer to. I'm not even sure James knows himself."

"I'm not unhappy," James cut in, from the bedroom doorway. 

Elliot and Robbie both spun round to face him, looking vaguely guilty at having been caught talking about him. 

James had dressed in jeans and a hoodie, but his hair was in disarray, and his eyes were a little red - from the earlier tears or from sleeping in his contacts, it wasn't clear. 

"There's tea in the pot," Elliot informed him. 

James crossed over to join them in the kitchen, and pulled Elliot into a quick one armed hug, before setting about pouring himself a mug of tea. 

"How come you stayed?" James asked. 

"You seemed upset. It'd be a dick move to leave," 

"Most people would have run for the hills."

"I know we barely know each other, but it's not like we're strangers. And even if we were...I like to think I wouldn't walk past someone on the street if they were in that state, so I certainly wasn't going to walk out and leave you." 

James was quiet, both Robbie and Elliot watching him, letting him lead the conversation. Robbie aware from past experience that he was treading on very thin ice; Elliot reading the room and coming to the same conclusion. 

James sipped his tea thoughtfully, leaning back against the counter. His body facing Robbie, but resolutely refusing to meet his eye. 

"Whenever I get close to anyone, bad things happen." he finally stated, into the quiet. 

"Like what?"

"People die." 

"Like who?" 

"Like Smythe?"

Robbie snorted. You're a policeman, James. Sometimes you're going to encounter murder cases." 

"And every single time it's because I was too weak, I get drawn into something then people get hurt."

"That's crap, James." 

"You said yourself, I get close to people, you have to carry me out of burning buildings." James retorted, stubborn as ever. 

"Burning buildings?!" Elliot exclaimed, startled. They both ignored him. 

"You make rash decisions instead of talking to your friends about things that are affecting you, and then you get hurt." 

"I'm not having this argument with you again,"

"Why won't you accept that people care about you, James?"

"Because they shouldn't!" 

"Why not?" Elliot interrupted. "Sorry, I'm clearly not in the loop here, but I'm curious."

"People get hurt." James reiterated.

"Like who?" 

James was quiet, staring down at his mug of tea, jaw working as he struggled to find the right words. He was exhausted, emotionally drained from the earlier shouting match with Robbie, and really not feeling recovered enough to be going for a second round. 

"I left the seminary because my mother died." he finally said into the quiet.

He was surprised, slightly, when the world continued to turn and nothing spontaneously caught fire, despite breaking the silence on such a fiercely guarded secret. 

Robbie considered this for a moment, putting it together with the various other snippets he'd learned of James's past and his family. 

"Before or after your friend Will came to you for help?" 

"After. A couple of days later. She killed herself." 

"What happened between you and Will?" Robbie asked, reminded again that he'd never got the whole story about that period of James's life. 

"Exactly what you think," James said, finally meeting Robbie's eye, his jaw clenched and face defiant; daring Robbie to challenge him for having lied about it last time they had this conversation.

"And you blame yourself for that; you think it's why your mum died?"

James shrugged. 

"Did she even know?" Elliot asked. He was struggling to follow the details of the exchange, but the outline was obvious.

Another shrug. 

"James, I--" Robbie was speechless, flabbergasted at just how little self worth James was showing. How deep rooted this insecurity was. 

"I know I'm missing half the context here, but James, you're saying you had something with this guy called Will, and you think your mum killed herself because of it?" Elliot asked for clarification. 

James nodded. 

"That sounds pretty fucked up to me." 

"He's not wrong," Robbie agreed. He sighed and put down his empty cup, and pulled over one of the stools from the breakfast bar to sit on. 

"I know how this is going to sound, coming from me of all people, but have you thought about talking to someone? Y'know, a counsellor or whatever."

"I was counselled by my priest, after mum died… He agreed it was God's punishment."

Robbie sat back a little, his face a picture of outrage. 

"What was his name?" he asked, his tone entirely Inspector Lewis. 

"Robbie, --"

"Tell me his name." 

"So you can do what...arrest him for doing his job?"

"No, so I can punch his bloody lights out."

"Robbie,"

"I'm serious, James. Do you have _any_ idea how irresponsible that was? Do you even realise just how much he's hurt you? You're so close to it you can't even see it. But you're living a half life, James. And it's all down to that?!"

"What do you mean, a half life?" James challenged, riled. 

"You cut yourself off from everyone else. You won't let anyone near you."

"What, everyone has to shack up in happily settled couples in order to live a fulfilled life do they?"

"That's not what Ii'm saying, don't bloody twist it. If I thought you were happy, being single, I'd let it drop. But James, you're miserable. You drink too much, you eat too little."

"It's my life."

"Imagine for a second, if someone went up to one of my kids and told them that when Val died it was God's punishment for something they'd done."

James sighed, unable to counter this but still unwilling to concede that he could be wrong.

"Imagine it, go on." Robbie prompted.

"You're not religious," James told him, as if that explained the difference. 

"No, I'm not. But according to your rules, God is everywhere, whether I believe in him or not, so what...you think that some teenage indiscretion by one of my kids meant that God popped that man into that car and then sent him to mow her down?"

"Of course not, but--" 

"But nothing, James. The idea is ridiculous. And I'm serious, if I ever find out who that priest was, it won't be God's wrath he needs to worry about."

James was quiet, his breathing slow and controlled; overwhelmed at this vehement defence of his life choices, and how much he'd internalised the message that God had been punishing him for his mother's death.

"James?" Robbie asked. 

James shook his head, trying to convey that he was too overwhelmed to talk. 

"Hey, hey now, come here man, don't be daft." Robbie reached out to him, half offering a hug, but wary that James would not necessarily relish the contact. 

"I don't know how to stop it, I don't know how else to live." James admitted, his voice cracking a little. He scrubbed at his face in an effort to prevent himself from crying.

"You don't have to do it alone, man. You've got me, I'll help out anyway you'll let me. You can talk to Laura. Elliot still hasn't run screaming, so you can probably keep him around if you want." 

"When I text you earlier, I was going to suggest that we should hang out some more…" Elliot agreed. 

"We can find you someone to talk to about all this. Someone a bit more qualified than me, ey? And maybe see if we can track you down a friendly priest who actually has a couple of brain cells to rub together. Let them help you with that side of things? How about that?"

James was all out sobbing now. He slid down the counter to sit in a heap on the floor, face buried in his knees. 

Considering he'd been carrying around this burden for all these years… Robbie was frankly amazed he hadn't cracked before now. He went to James, and crouched awkwardly next to him, ignoring the protest from his knees, as he offered a point of contact, a hand on James's shoulder. 

Elliot crossed to the sink and filled a glass of water, snagging a couple of squares of kitchen roll and bringing both to where James and Robbie were sitting on the floor. 

After a few minutes, and some sips of water, James finally started to get control of his breathing, the sobbing stopped. 

"I'm sorry," he croaked, wetly. Scrubbing at his face to wipe away the tears and snot. 

"You've nothing to be sorry for," Elliot told him, handing him some kitchen roll.

James gave him a highly skeptical look, 

"You're allowed to ask for help." Robbie continued, "You're allowed to not always manage to keep all your feelings in check."

James couldn't meet his eye, but he at least didn't deny it, or try to apologise again. 

"I'm serious though," Robbie continued when it was clear that James wasn't going to speak, "you want to get some sort of professional...guidance on all this, I'm happy to help. Go through the yellow pages to find you a counsellor or whatever."

"I'm pretty sure there's a list online," James told him; a faint attempt at his normal humour.

"Aye, well, lucky I know how to use google. The offer still stands." 

"I don't want to need help," James admitted, quietly. 

"No one ever does, James." Elliot told him. "It doesn't mean you don't need it though." 

James nodded. Not quite an agreement, but a step in the right direction. 

"And you should consider keeping this young man around." Robbie added, gesturing to Elliot. "He did all your washing up while you were napping earlier." 

James laughed, surprised. 

"I think you can hire cleaners for that now," James informed him, "You don't actually need a live-in partner just for housework anymore." 

"I can make more tea," Elliot offered, "I know my worth." he added with a grin. 

"Yeah, that would be nice," James agreed with a smile. 

He felt lighter somehow. Better than he ought to feel after humiliating himself like that in front of his former boss and new...whatever Elliot was. Friend, perhaps.

"Come on," Robbie said, effortfully clambering to his feet. "I think beer and a takeaway is in order." 

"You just ate lunch a couple of hours ago," James grumbled. 

"About 5 hours ago!" Robbie defended, rummaging in the kitchen drawer for takeaway menus. "Elliot, are you staying?"

"If I'm invited?" He looked to James for confirmation. 

"You may as well," James told him. 

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to occasionally let people in after all. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after?


End file.
